Take My Hand
by HPNewsie
Summary: In which Gavroche's final moments are chatacterized by his friends hands reaching across the barricade towards him, and the memories of the relationships he has with each of them.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi everyone. So this is my first Les Mis fanfiction and to be honest, I have no idea if there is a large audience for Les Mis fiction or anything like that- I am a fairly new fan and will be the first to admit that I am not an expert on all the details of the story. All of my Les Mis fan fictions will exist purely because I really enjoy writing them; they are just for fun. I'm posting them in the hope that maybe, some other people will enjoy reading them too. I love Les Mis a lot and will always try to keep the characters as realistic as possible and keep everything as close to accurate as possible, but as I mentioned earlier, if I mess something up slightly, I apologize.**

 **Anyway, I do hope this does end up being read by someone. If you do happen to read it, I would love it if you'd leave me a review and let me know. I know this isn't within the realm of fandoms that I usually do, but I hope you guys like it anyway. And I predict that there will be more Les Mis to come in the future too. Thank you all so much and I hope you enjoy.**

 **(Also, I'm reposting this from a different account that I had made for the sole purpose of posting stories of a different category, but I decided I'd rather have all my stories together so if you did happen to already see this story, yes, I am reposting it through my original account.)**

 **And I'm going to try posting this one last time- I don't know what happened, it something got screwed up the last time and the text was absolutely unreadable, so sorry about that. Hopefully it works this time.**

 **Just a quick note about this specific story: any changes here from the details of Gavroche's death are intentional, and for the purposes of this story, some minor details have been changed.**

Gavroche is seconds away from his death, and he knows it.

He throws the bag of ammunition over the top of the barricade, not even looking to see where it lands. Someone will pick it up, he knows. It will be used. He has done his job.

He sees a cluster of hands extending over the side of the barricade, all reaching out towards him, and he hears urgent whispers coming from different mouths. They are telling him to hurry up, to come on, so they can pull him over. Gavroche focuses on one of the voices.

"Gavroche, take my hand," Courfeyrac hisses. His eyes are wild and Gavroche suddenly feels the weight of the situation. These are his last moments. He must make them count.

And as he takes in the sight of all of the hands, Gavroche's mind suddenly begins to flash, and he sees countless scenes playing out in front of his eyes, the whole story of his relationship with the people to whom the hands belong overlapping to fill only a few seconds. But they seem to consume all the time in the world, suspended above the barricade. Gavroche knows that these stories are important enough to be his last moments. They are the most important moments of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Gavroche ducked into one of Paris's many dark alleyways, the street flooded with filth and swarming with people. He was on the run from an officer, and he was starving. He had just swiped an apple from one of the carts on the side of the road, and he had been very sneaky about it, if he allowed himself the credit. But in the haze of his hunger (he hadn't been quite sure when he had last eaten anything proper) he hadn't been careful enough, and when he'd crashed into one of the officers patrolling nearby, his anxious eyes had given him away. And so Gavroche had taken off running, and although he was exceptionally good at escaping trouble, he knew he couldn't run forever. So, he'd tried to hide, hoping to at least secure one delicious bite of the apple before it would be forced away from him.

Gavroche leaned against the wall, panting, when he caught sight of a man, looking deep in thought and very serious. With his expensive red jacket and neatly tied back blond hair, his social status was immediately obvious, and Gavroche cursed himself for having the misfortune of choosing this particular alley, whose exit was blocked by this man who would surely hand him over to the police.

Gavroche ripped into the apple, savoring what he knew would be his only bites and hoping desperately that the man would leave him alone. He looked up, hearing footsteps crunching towards him, and saw the blond man approaching him, striding in his direction with purpose. Gavroche cursed again. What terrible, terrible, luck.

The man reached him quickly, and looked him over. Gavroche held the man's gaze, staring confidently into his eyes, even though there was something about the man that gave off an immediate impression of importance and strength that should have scared off any child of Gavroche's age. But then again, Gavroche had always prided himself on not being just any child, and so he took it upon himself to face this man with courage.

"You look tired," the man said mildly. "You've been running. Is something the matter?"

Gavroche was decidedly surprised by this. He shook his head, scowling. "Only that you're about to turn me in," he muttered, slowly backing away. He had learned, through years of experience, that the rich didn't much give people like him the benefit of the doubt. If he was in possession of food that look to be above what befitted a person of his standing, it was assumed to have been stolen.

"I wouldn't be so sure," the man said calmly. "I don't particularly consider stealing an apple as a hungry young boy is such an unforgivable crime, do you?"

As Gavroche took a moment to marvel at this, he heard crashing footsteps coming from the other end of the alleyway. He knew he had to make a choice. He took a hesitant step towards the young man, as the officer thundered after him.

"Come, take my hand," the man said, extending his arm towards Gavroche.

Weighing the risks, Gavroche made the best decision he could in the moment. Grabbing the man's hand, Gavroche allowed himself to be pulled along by the older man, keeping a firm grip on the apple all the while.

After they lost the officer, the man pulled Gavroche behind a café,

"There," he said, smiling slightly. "And now you may feast in peace."

Gavroche frowned. "What did you do that for?" he asked suspiciously. "What's it to you if I eat or not?"

Sighing the man put a hand on Gavroche's shoulder. Gavroche immediately tensed. He did _not_ like people touching him under any circumstances. But the man kept talking.

"Well, in a better world, a world for which I happen to be fighting for right now, we would operate under a system called a moral economy, where the government would help the people to get the things they needed, like supplying you with food. So, it seems to me that if you are taking it upon yourself to further my agenda of one day having such a system, it is only right that I aid you in your quest. Fair enough?"

Gavroche pondered. He didn't understand everything, to be sure, but the man, surprisingly, seemed to think along the same lines as Gavroche himself did. He'd never thought it fair that the poor people had to work so much harder for so much less. Gavroche decided he was satisfied with this man. He nodded.

"Excellent. And, what is your name, may I ask?"

"I'm called Gavroche," he said boldly. "And you, Monsieur?"

"Enjolras," the man said, equally as bold, with a slight smirk.

"Maybe we will become friends, Monsieur Enjolras," Gavroche said, between aggressive bites of apple. "Thank you for the help, and for the lesson on the moral economy. I will remember all of it."

Enjolras nodded at him as Gavroche headed away. And then he called him back. Gavroche turned, curious.

"Gavroche! Wait here a moment, please." As the young boy obeyed, Enjolras disappeared into the café, emerging seconds later with some bread and a piece of meat.

"Take this, as well," he said, smiling widely now and handing the food over to Gavroche. "We must do all we can to make up for the many areas in which our government is failing, oui? Enjoy."

And Gavroche smiled, the biggest he'd smiled in weeks—maybe months. "Merci, Monsieur!" he said happily. "Merci!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so so much to everyone to has read this so far, and especially the two very nice people who left a review. I know I'm still sort of getting used to writing Les Miz, but I'm trying my best, and really enjoying it too! Anyway, I hope you like this chapter!**

Gavroche had been seeing Enjolras fairly regularly. He had begun to hang around that café he had seen Enjolras disappear into, hoping to run into the older man again, and he had not been disappointed. Only days after their first meeting, Gavroche caught sight of Enjolras again, and not only did the man remember him, but he called him over.

"Gavroche, how are you?" he asked, and Gavroche noticed, upon their second encounter, how tired the older boy looked. He had dark circles under his eyes, and a very weary smile, which Gavroche had seen disappear the moment they'd parted.

"Well, monsieur, well," Gavroche answered enthusiastically. "How are your plans for the moral economy? You see, I remember, I told you I would!"

Enjolras nodded, tired smile still present. "That is excellent Gavroche, truly. And to answer your question—they are alive, shall we say, alive under immense pressure of destruction. But I assure you, I will not let them die. So long as there are people like us, they cannot die." Gavroche stared up at him, in awe of what this man was able to do with words. The things he said gave Gavroche hope, and not just the kind of dull hope that was tossed around among the street children, the hope that none of them had never really believed in. His opinion of Enjolras leaped from respect to reverence.

"Anyway, I have much to attend to, so I'm afraid I must take my leave. You will try and stay safe, yes? I will see about getting you a some more food next time, if you think you would like that." And with an almost unnoticeable wink—Gavroche wasn't quite sure if he'd imagined it—and a pat on Gavroche's shoulder, Enjolras was gone, leaving Gavroche practically beaming. This man, he decided right then, was his hero.

And, as he had predicted, the two became friends. They saw each other again and again, the elder often with food, the younger always with a thirst for information about plans for change. Some days, their meetings would be brief: words of greeting, an exchange of news, and parting. Other days, when Enjolras was less busy, he would buy Gavroche an entire meal, and they would talk about things. Gavroche might educate the older boy on the underground workings of life on the streets, and Enjolras might continue giving Gavroche lessons about government, and the king, and most enticingly, revolution. Gavroche could never get enough of these talks. He loved the way Enjolras spoke to him like an adult, not a stupid little child, and the way he listened carefully to all of his opinions. And although Enjolras never hesitated to disagree when he thought Gavroche was wrong, Gavroche didn't mind. It made him feel like his ideas mattered. He loved the way Enjolras never seemed to run out of words; they just kept floating out of his mouth in perfect rhythm, and always carrying such importance, as if the words themselves could change the world. Gavroche even loved Enjolras's unique personality and ways of showing affection—although he wasn't the warmest man in the world, and was always reserved in his emotion, Gavroche liked his guarded smiles and serious expressions, his tired eyes and messy hair. Here, Gavroche thought, was a member of the _bourgeoisie_ who deserved his wealth. And Gavroche appreciated the fact that he now had someone looking out for him; he was secretly pleased whenever Enjolras sternly told him to stay out of trouble or lectured him about the safety (or lack thereof) of certain areas of the city. Gavroche never paid him any heed, of course, he could very well look out for himself, but he appreciated the concern nevertheless. And on one occasion, on a particularly lonely day, Gavroche had even been on the receiving end of a short, one-armed embrace. It had only been once, and the moment had passed quickly, but Gavroche had been fine with that; he'd never been one to rely on shows of affection. Enjolras's trust and companionship was been more than enough.

Gavroche often noticed Enjolras surrounded by a group of other young men, whether it was on the street walking together or sitting in the café Enjolras so often went to, and he heard Enjolras reference his "friends" on numerous occasions, but he never had much interest in meeting them. Gavroche supposed they must be all right, if they were Enjolras's friends, and they helped him with plans for his revolution, as he said they did, but Gavroche was firmly of the opinion that Enjolras could take on the king all by himself and win. He didn't need any friends to do it. And so Gavroche never gave the subject much thought.

Until, of course, one day he was forced to. It was an autumn evening, after a long and difficult day. Gavroche had gotten into a small skirmish with some of the other boys on the street the previous day, had gotten shoved the wrong way, and fallen hard on his right shoulder at an awkward angle, and ever since, he'd been in serious pain. These things happened sometimes, but that didn't make them any more bearable.

He made his way through the city, trying not to move his shoulder and hoping to catch the eye of a kindhearted baker and perhaps earn himself some dinner, when he crashed directly into Enjolras, who, as usual, was striding through Paris with purpose and determination.

Gritting his teeth through the stab of pain in his arm that had emerged upon the collision, Gavroche muttered a greeting. "Evenin', Enjolras."

The older man was clearly startled by the crash, and ran a hand absently through his hair. "Hello, Gavroche," Enjolras said, gently moving the child back. "Everything all right?"

"I suppose," Gavroche sighed, using his good arm to straighten his jacket. "City's rough, you know. But I'll live, I'm tough."

"Of course," Enjolras answered, and even through his pain, Gavroche found satisfaction in the way his hero accepted his proclamation of strength without question.

"Well, I'm on my way to a meeting with my friends tonight, so I'm going to have to make this encounter a short one. Have a good night Gavroche." And then Enjolras made the unfortunate mistake of clasping Gavroche's injured shoulder, and it was too much for the boy. He cried out in pain, immediately swearing afterwards to make up for his lapse in bravery.

"You're hurt," Enjolras said immediately, eyes narrowing. "What happened?"

"S'nothing', 'm fine," Gavroche gasped. "You have to go, Enjolras, don't-"

"You clearly are not fine, Gavroche, don't lie. Can you move your arm at all?"

Rolling his eyes, Gavroche scoffed. "'Course I can, look." Taking a deep breath, he reached out his arm, feeling tears spring to his eyes at the incredible pain it caused. But he fought them; the thing he most prided himself on was his strength, and he knew he was more than capable of dealing with this by himself. After all the bad things that had happened to him, after living on the streets alone and being hungry and cold and without any family, Gavroche had survived, and he hadn't needed anyone's help. And in this moment, too, he didn't want anyone's help, even his hero's. Gavroche's strength was all he had. No one was going to take it away from him.

"See?" Gavroche said. "Perfectly alright, barely any pain."

"Yes, I'm sure," Enjolras said drily. "Look, you know these friends I often speak of? One of them is a medical student, and although I would not quite yet call him a doctor, I am certain he knows quite a bit about bones. If you would accompany me to the café, I have no doubt that he will be happy to help you."

Gavroche began shaking his head as soon as Enjolras mentioned his friends. He had to prove to himself—Enjolras too, but mostly himself—that he could handle this. Yes, the pain was excruciating, but Gavroche would live. He always had.

Enjolras crouched down and put a hand on his good shoulder, and Gavroche tensed. It was much harder to handle things alone when he had the option of help.

"Gavroche, listen to me, I'm no doctor, but there's something badly wrong with your shoulder and you need help. I understand you don't want to ask for it, and that's fine, and I will respect your wishes, if you truly decide against coming with me, but I'm asking you, as your friend, to please come. I promise you that I can get you help. And you do not have to pretend, I can see that you're in a great deal of pain. You don't have to deal with that on your own, and you most certainly do not have to prove anything to me. I'm already greatly impressed by your bravery, Gavroche, truly."

Gavroche looked up at the last sentence. _Enjolras_ was impressed with his bravery? No one had ever told him he was brave before; that was the reason Gavroche had been so adamant about being able to believe it himself. But now that he had someone else's confirmation of his strength, Gavroche considered. Would it make him weak to allow someone to help him? Enjolras said no, it wouldn't. And Enjolras seemed to know everything.

"Okay, I'll go," Gavroche said quietly. And little did he know that he was about to, for the first time, meet a group of people he would be able to call his family.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi everyone,**

 **I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I've updated this story- my life has been absolutely insane. However, I still am invested in it and am planning to keep posting.**

 **A couple notes about the story so far: first of all, one of the incredible people who left a review on the last chapter mentioned that the tense- my too frequent usage of "had"- made it sort of difficult to read, which I absolutely agree with. (Thank you for the advice rebecca-in-blue). So I did go back and change the tense.**

 **Secondly, I know we don't really know exactly what Combeferre is studying, but I chose to make him a medical student, just because to be honest, it almost seems to be commonly accepted, and I really like his character and feel that medicine matches his personality, at least in the way I want to portray him.**

 **And finally, I know it might seem like I'm reading too much into the relationship between Gavroche and Les Amis. Certainly in the book, we aren't given many indications of him being particularly emotionally attached to the group as a whole. However, this is based off of the musical, where there are more moments of affection. And I love Gavroche, and I want to believe- I do believe- that Les Amis were his adopted family, and this is the most realistic way I imagine that relationship coming to be.**

 **So anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter. Please review and let me know what you think, it would really mean a lot to me. And of course, I hope you all had wonderful holidays and have an amazing New Year.**

 **\- HPNewsie**

Gavroche felt his stomach clench in anticipation as he finally approached the café that he privately thought of as Enjolras's home. He had to admit to himself that he was a little bit apprehensive about meeting so many of Enjolras's older friends, especially given the fact that his first introduction to them would be during a time when he needed their help. Gavroche didn't like to be at other people's mercy; he preferred to count on himself and only himself, for every interaction with someone else to be on his terms, in his control. He trusted Enjolras—in fact, the older man was possibly the only person he did completely trust—and he knew that everything would be fine, but Gavroche couldn't help the anxiety he felt about having to ask these strangers to help him. Not to mention the pain in his shoulder, which was now so intense that it was taking everything in him not to cry as he walked next Enjolras. He frowned in determination: even if his arm _fell off_ , he wouldn't let a single tear come out of his eyes.

They reached the café, and Gavroche took a deep breath as Enjolras opened the door and held it open for him. Straightening up, Gavroche followed him inside.

The first thing he noticed was that there were young men _everywhere._ Sitting at tables, poring over notes, drinking wine, laughing, talking to each other. And they all seemed so _happy._ Gavroche had never seen such a calm and content group of people. They were so organized too, in the way they communicated, and it was a stark contrast to everything that was familiar to Gavroche: chaotic masses of starving beggars, falling over each other and cursing and acting without restraint as a result of their desperation. He had never even thought something like this could exist in the midst of the dirty city of Paris; he knew the bourgeois had meetings, far away from the slums, over good food and in front of warm fires, but Gavroche had always imagined them in an abstract way, not as anything he'd ever have the chance to see. And yet here he was.

"Men!" Enjolras called, addressing the crowd of men. "I bring a guest."

Gavroche tentatively let go of his shoulder; he'd been holding onto it with his good arm, trying to stabilize it, but he wanted to make a good impression on these men, and he couldn't do that if he was hunched over in pain. Letting out a shaky breath, Gavroche nodded in resignation. Even though he had none of the expensive things that these men had, he had his strength, and that would have to be enough.

Gavroche watched the young men all turn towards him, eyeing him curiously. Gavroche stared back defiantly. Two of the men stood up and came over to him.

One of them, a tall man with dark curls and a warm grin, spoke. "Well, Enjolras, who is this? Not a secret child of yours, I hope. He does look strikingly like you." He laughed openly, and the man next to him—brown haired and lanky—clapped a hand to his head, groaning good-naturedly.

"Of course not," Enjolras answered, frowning at the dark haired man. "Gentlemen, meet Gavroche, authority on the workings of Paris and proficient scholar of revolution. Gavroche, this rascal is Courfeyrac-" he gestured to the dark haired man- "and this is Feuilly."

"A pleasure, young sir," the man named Courfeyrac said, still smiling broadly and winking at Gavroche. Gavroche couldn't help the faint grin that crossed his face, despite the throbbing of his arm. He immediately liked this man.

"And where are you from, Gavroche?" Feuilly asked. Gavroche's grin faded. He hoped these men weren't going to look down on him once they realized he wasn't like them. Although, he mused, they probably already knew just by the way he looked. He knew his clothes were ripped and disgusting, and his face was smudged with dirt and whatever else came with it, gifts from the very streets themselves. Still, he wasn't ashamed. He was proud to be on his own.

"The streets," Gavroche said boldly. "'Been my home for as long as I can remember." He cast his eyes around the room defiantly, daring anyone to make a degrading comment about his background. To his surprise, no one did.

"So tell me, Gavroche, how is it Enjolras managed to recruit you to our cause? Rebels are starting younger and younger in this day and age, I must say." Courfeyrac casually reclined in a nearby chair, and Gavroche smiled again at the man, who he could already tell was a ceaseless source of mischief. He wondered how Enjolras, so serious and stoical, had come to be friends with someone this light-hearted.

"He helped me get away from an officer after I stole an apple," Gavroche said carefully, wondering if the students would kick him out after discovering he was an offending thief. Enjolras had been a wonderful exception to the patterns of the bourgeoisie, yes, but what was to say his friends would follow suit?

"Enjolras! Aiding and abetting thievery in our nation's youth? You have reached a new low, my friend." Courfeyrac said, absently fiddling with his shirt, but still smiling.

"Not that we all would not have done precisely the same thing, and you absolutely know it, Courfeyrac." Feuilly said. Gavroche was shocked.

"Really, gentlemen, I'm surprised at all of you. Not a word about our leader's newfound humanity? It's one thing to name children as part of the cause, Enjolras, but to actually go out and speak to them is quite another. You'd best keep it quieted down, or your reputation as the unbreakable leader with the marble heart will be met with distrust by the people." A fair-haired man with glasses spoke up from the back of the room, and Gavroche didn't miss the humor in his voice. Gavroche watched in awe at the easy banter between all of these men, who were clearly the best of friends. He had never been among people like this, at least not in such a plentiful quantity, all in one place. Of course, there were kind-hearted vendors and merciful rich women who took pity on people like him, and there were other street children whom he had become acquainted with that Gavroche felt a sense of loyalty to, but this café was packed with what felt to Gavroche like the best of the city. It didn't quite feel like Paris at all, for the matter. And despite his disinclination to trust, Gavroche felt at ease with these men. He felt—safe.

Most of the men snickered at the bespectacled man's remark, and even Gavroche smiled faintly. The pain in his shoulder was growing harder to ignore though, and despite his earlier protests, he almost wished Enjolras would hurry up and get him to his medical friend. He'd been so caught up in adjusting to this new and exciting scene that he hadn't quite been aware until now of how pressingly the pain demanded to be felt.

Enjolras frowned, holding up his hands. "All right, all right, enough. Gavroche, this is Jean Prouvaire, that one who just spoke is Combeferre, he's the medical student, the one with the wine bottle in his hand is Grantaire, that's no surprise, Lesgles, Marius, and Joly, our other scholar of medicine, seems to be out." Gavroche tried in vain to keep track of the names as Enjolras spoke them. They all nodded at him in greeting, except for the man Gavroche thought was called Grantaire, who lazily raised his bottle in his direction.

Even as Gavroche eyed the drinking man warily—he seemed oddly out of place in the midst of this clear- minded congregation—he spoke up, addressing Gavroche with the audacious confidence that Gavroche knew could only come from alcohol.

"How old are you, gamin?" he called, taking a swig of his drink. "You hardly seem to have enough years behind you to have opinions about social change."

Gavroche rolled his eyes. Of all the things he hated most in the world, perhaps at the top of the list was children being ignored and disregarded merely as a result of their age. It never failed to anger him, and combined with the fact that his shoulder was now burning and all he wanted was to make it stop, Gavroche couldn't hold back from delivering a fiery retort.

"I'm ten, I'll have you know, and I'm old enough to know that what I think about revolution is worth more than your drunken thoughts. If you drink as much as I suppose you do—I can also well spot a drunkard, by the way, and you're one—I can't imagine you're much help to the rebellion."

Gavroche all but glowed with pride at the men's reaction- some of them, like Courfeyrac, broke into light applause, while others whistled and nodded to each other. This was how Gavroche liked things to be. Speaking his mind, never backing down, claiming his place in the conversation. Gavroche didn't care about the age of the people he addressed; he had just as much right to have ideas as they did, and he had never held much stock in respecting his elders. In his opinion, the young were the ones who ought to be listened to the most; the world was theirs to inherit. Gavroche resented being belittled, and he was certainly not going to sit back and accept it. This drunk man had better learn that.

Grantaire stared back at Gavroche, frowning in what looked like concentration. Gavroche waited. Finally, Grantaire stood up, setting down his bottle on the table with a thud and approaching him. Gavroche tensed, suddenly a little bit wary. Had gone too far? Had he driven to the man to a physical fight? Never one to back down from any kind of conflict, Gavroche wasn't afraid, but he was hesitant to add to his pain.

But Grantaire, much to Gavroche's surprise, burst out laughing, and got down on one knee, extending his hand to the younger boy.

"So you've got spirit, little Gavroche," he said, taking his hand. "I certainly cannot fault you for that. Bravo." Grantaire started shaking Gavroche's hand vigorously and Gavroche let out a gasp. This was too much. He forgot his pride; all he wanted was for this pain to go away. He hated how his pride was ebbing away with each fiery throb; it was shameful, but the agony was relentless and merciless. He looked to Enjolras, silently begging him for help. The older man immediately jumped into action.

"Grantaire! Get away from him, he has a hurt shoulder! Gavroche, are you alright?" Gavroche couldn't breathe or even nod a response. He could only think of the impossible pain—pain beyond anything he'd ever felt before—and the fact that despite everything, he still wasn't crying. All he could focus on amidst the cloud of was not crying. As long as he didn't let any tears fall, everything would be okay.

"Enjolras, do you mean to tell me that you brought an injured child—severely injured by the looks of it—to us, and let us all waste time on introductions? He's clearly in terrible pain, you idiot. I will never cease to be appalled at your lack of empathetic judgment. Bring him here Enjolras, quickly now, towards this table. Jehan, do me a favor and move all this paper away, will you?" Combeferre, the doctor, Gavroche remembered, was clearing off the table near him, at the back of the room. He barely registered Enjolras putting a hand on his back and pushing him gently in Combeferre's direction; barely noticed Grantaire standing up and looking upset, maybe even ashamed; barely saw the rest of the men going quiet and backing away from the table Combeferre had claimed for his work. Gavroche began to panic. He'd never felt so out of control—there was nothing he could do, by himself, to stop this pain, to make himself okay. And it was hurting so badly; one on hand he just wanted it to stop, but on the other, his heart was telling him that he had to deal with it. _That's what makes you different, that's what makes you better. You're always strong. You can deal with anything._

And then he was standing in front of the medical student, this man in whom Gavroche was going to have to place all of his trust. Gavroche really couldn't breathe now; he couldn't handle this. Not the pain and the new people and the fact that he had to fight all his grief to prove his strength.

"Gavroche, you're alright. It's okay. I'm going to look at your shoulder now, don't worry." Gavroche stared at Combeferre as he talked. He was so… _calm._ The man smiled at him slightly and knelt down, putting one hand on each shoulder, the one on his bad side light and practiced as it moved around his arm. Gavroche ground his teeth together. As the student tried tentatively to move the arm, Gavroche hissed involuntarily, and Combeferre immediately let go.

"I'm so sorry, I can only imagine how unpleasant this must be for you," the man apologized. Gavroche managed a nod. Combeferre stood up slowly. "It's dislocated, just as I thought. It needs to be set. I promise you though, in a few moments the pain in your arm will be considerably less, if you will permit me to fix it. It is, of course up to you."

"Will fixing it hurt?" Gavroche whispered tiredly. He truly didn't think he could take anymore of this. He saw Combeferre awkwardly glance towards Enjolras—still standing right at Gavroche's side—before answering him.

"Were you not, as I have gathered from your conduct so far, such a brave and independent young lad, I would perhaps modify the truth here. But in all honesty, Gavroche, yes, unfortunately, it will be quite painful. I truly am so sorry, my friend, I wish you did not have to deal with this."

Gavroche took a deep breath. As much as he was dreading the pain Combeferre had promised, he knew he had to do this. Gavroche tried to tell himself that it was only pain, which could always be endured, but he was finding it hard to believe.

"Fix it, please," Gavroche whispered. "I can handle it." Combeferre nodded at him, smiling sympathetically.

"All right. You need to be lying down, can you let me lift you onto the table?" Gavroche sighed. "No, I can do it myself." He tried to stand up on the chair, but because he was gripping his shoulder, he couldn't balance. He was exhausted and upset and wanted to collapse. He clumsily stumbled off the chair and swore.

"Gavroche, please," Suddenly Enjolras was beside him, and Gavroche felt a little bit better. This man had been his first friend, the first person he had ever trusted. Gavroche had nothing to offer him, and yet Enjolras brought him food and talked to him and even took him to his own friends when Gavroche needed help. And Enjolras was still standing here; for all of his grand words and serious expressions, somehow, Gavroche seemed to have won his affection. The thought calmed him down at least enough to breathe more regularly, and try to listen to what Enjolras was saying. The blond man steadied him, and put his hand on the back of Gavroche's neck. Gavroche felt his resolve fading: no one had ever touched him so gently as Enjolras and Combeferre had. The only other human contact he'd experienced had been swats and shoves and grabs and blows. He was unused to all of this, all of this help and support, and if he was honest with himself, it was scaring him a little bit. He didn't know how to handle it.

"You trust me, do you not?" Enjolras said quietly, and Gavroche forced himself to focus on his words. He nodded sharply. "'Course I do."

"Good. The same way you trust me, I trust Combeferre. You were brave enough to let me bring you here, and all I am asking of you now is to try and be brave enough to let Combeferre help you. I have learned, my young friend, that even in the quest to substantiate your strength, it is unnecessary to travel alone. It is a hard thing to accept, particularly when, as is your case, and mine, you place so much value in your own courage, but it is the truth." Gavroche stared. Words never seemed to fail Enjolras, and always exactly the right words too. They were impossibly eloquent, but Enjolras made them seem like simple truths.

"Now, will you allow Combeferre to assist you?" Gavroche clenched his jaw, fighting himself. Would agreeing to accept help bely strength or weakness?

He decided to trust Enjolras. "Yeah," he mumbled. "If you think it's all right."

"It most certainly is. Combeferre, I believe your patient requires some assistance." Gavroche watched as Combeferre nodded, business like, and gently picked his up around the waist, setting him on the table and then helping him lie down.

"Alright, Enjolras, if you would please hold his side, I need leverage to put his arm back, and I need to make sure he remains still." Gavroche began to panic again. He felt completely helpless, his arm was aching horribly, and he was trapped. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the fact that two men were standing over him and he was about as out of control as he could possibly be.

"It's alright, Gavroche, everything is going to be fine. You're doing wonderfully well, I am most impressed. Try to relax for me," Combeferre said, smiling calmly and slowly reaching for Gavroche's arm. Gavroche took a shaky breath. _You trust Enjolras, you trust Enjolras, and he trusts Combeferre, and you're going to be alright._

"I am going to pull your arm away from your body, that will make it slide back into your shoulder. As I said, it will be quite uncomfortable, but once the arm is set, the pain will go away, yes? Are you ready?" Before he could lose his courage, Gavroche nodded. He was aware, even through all of his panic, of how much he liked the young medical student. Combeferre was quiet and composed and kind, and treated him with respect. Gavroche immensely appreciated the fact that he explained everything before doing it. Yes, he liked Combeferre already.

And suddenly Gavroche felt two hands close around his forearm and pull gently and steadily away, and he tensed. Hell, this was torture. This was worse than going without food for three days, worse than sleeping out in the rain, worse even than the time he'd thrown up continuously for hours. He let out a grunt, and he felt Enjolras' hands on his chest tense. It was all Gavroche could do not to try and push both men away, so intense was the pain and fear. This was, he realized, the first time he had ever relied on another human being in his entire life, and it was terrifying him to relinquish what little control he had. He forced himself to think about all the kindness he had been shown by Enjolras, and now by his friends, to trust that he would be okay. Gavroche was a fighter, he knew that.

The few seconds before his arm clicked back into place were a blur of panic and pain, but Combeferre was right. Once it was set, the pain in his shoulder was immediately reduced from an almost unbearable throb to an ache. Gavroche exhaled, and carefully opened his eyes. Combeferre and Enjolras were both standing over him, smiling gently.

"How does that feel, Gavroche?" Combeferre asked, helping him sit up. "I daresay, judging by the look of considerable relief on your face, that I was right in predicting the reduction of pain?"

"Oui, monsieur," Gavroche said, already feeling more like his cheeky and fiery self. "Hurt like hell though."

Combeferre laughed. "I cannot argue with that. I could tell, you know, the second Enjolras brought you in, that you were a fighter. Although to be fair, I doubt you'd have been selected as his protégé had you not been. The marble man does have a knack for choosing the most passionate men of France to join our ranks."

Gavroche swelled with pride, tilting his chin upwards and feeling more pleased with himself with every word Combeferre said. Enjolras was glaring at his friend, but good-naturedly, Gavroche could tell. And suddenly, unexpectedly, Gavroche almost started crying, so overcome was he by pure joy. The kindness, laughter, ease, that filled the café, equal in magnitude to the summation of all of Gavroche's previous experiences with those feelings, swirled around him and he felt almost intoxicated, giddy, in its presence. He wanted to stay here forever, with Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the funny one, and all the other men who already seemed so gentle, so welcoming, and even Grantaire, whom Gavroche, despite his initial distrust, was already eager to tease. This was Heaven, Gavroche decided. No matter what the nuns said about it only being after you die and after God forgives you for being a poor and dirty street child and for stealing things and not respecting your elders and for doing what you had to do to survive.

While Gavroche tried to make sense of the powerful emotion overcoming him, he noticed Combeferre ripping a strip of fabric off of the bottom of his own shirt. Gavroche snapped his head in his direction.

"Monsieur, what are you doing?" Gavroche said. "Your shirt!"

Combeferre looked up at him and smiled, that same, calm smile that immediately put Gavroche at ease. "Do not worry, Gavroche, I have plenty more. I'm fashioning a bandage for that shoulder of yours, to keep it in place for a while. We don't want it moving around."

"Hang on, I can't go out in the streets with somethin' tied around my arm. How 'm I supposed to survive? Thank you monsieur, but I had better go, scrounge up something to eat."

"You will do nothing of the kind." Enjolras stepped forward, looking sternly at Gavroche. "You will let Combeferre bandage your shoulder and you will let me buy you a meal, a good one mind you, and you will spend the night here, in the basement of this café, with warm blankets and safety. And you will stay here until your arm has healed and Combeferre says you can go back to the streets. Or so help me Gavroche, I will personally hand you over to those police officers who seem to be incessantly pursuing you."

Gavroche stared at Enjolras in awe. Never, ever, _ever,_ before had he experienced something like this. Enjolras was making decisions about Gavroche's wellbeing, about his safety. He was—taking care of him. It was uncomfortable for Gavroche, to say the least. He once again felt helpless, but it was almost a comfortable feeling. Like he didn't have to hold himself up, to be so strong and independent, even if just for a little bit. Gavroche made a decision. He would always be able to take care of himself, that he knew for certain. But he didn't see why, when given the opportunity, he shouldn't take advantage of any help. And so, a small smile crossing his face, he turned to Combeferre so that he was presenting his shoulder for him to bandage.

"Alright, alright, you tyrant," Gavroche grumbled, smirking and glancing at Enjolras. "I'll stay, if you insist. But don't expect this to become a regular thing, got that? I ain't throwin' myself at your feet every time you decide to play Jesus and help me. I'm strong, you know. Stronger than any pathetic policemen. I can take care of myself. "

"Certainly," Enjolras replied, the edges of his mouth twitching. "I wouldn't dare believe otherwise."

And, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Gavroche laughed, feeling—as much as he could be expected to feel, given his circumstances—at peace.


End file.
